Rise Again

Fishin’

May 25th, 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments »

So many parents don’t want to do things with their children.

…

…

The drive to Buford is really very lovely.

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Let’s do an old fashioned Random History™ moment real quick.

Buford Dam @ Lake Lanier

Buford became a city in 1872.  They have a lovely new courthouse and square that caters to local businesses and families alike.  There’s a fish hatchery and a pond where families can go and fish together-and toke, if you’re like us, away from the Rat Race that is Atlanta.

…

…

The G-Man has never been fishing and to be honest I was a tad bit uncomfortable taking him for the first time without his father, but, well, too fucking bad.  J’s kids have been itching to get out of the hotel-another story-and while I do what I can to get them outside and run out of energy, the fact is that three boys without enough outside time will run you over faster than a Mac Truck on the way to a Hangover Convention.

…

So, off we go to Buford.  Fishing.  Tea.  A 2-year-old with nerves of steel.

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I just watched him get closer and closer to the water.  He loves water.  Like waterbug he is.

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…

…

Closer.

I really couldn’t put down that fucking pole fast enough.

..

I mean, I saw it a hundred years before it happened.

…

I usually don’t move in such slow motion.

…

In fact, I have a habit of going too fast when the mood strikes me.

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In he goes, face first and of course I just jumped.  I had no idea how deep or how grody.

And of course, the fish….

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Fortunately, for me no one bit me!

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…

He flipped over, ONTO HIS FACE. Of course.  All I could think was that he’s crying and going to suck in all this water.

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All the water.

…

But I grabbed him and he was okay.  Never a more complacent group of bystanders did I ever see.

…

It took me a few minutes, but eventually I did cave to the shaking and the crying and the scared out of my fucking minding.

Karaoke Tales #1

May 13th, 2009 | Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

Summer 2008.  Myrtle Beach. One point in the Trifecta of Redneck Riveras.

I’m fairly certain my marriage is over.

It’s time to get drunk…and sing.

Boardwalk on the Beach is known for it’s bars and nightlife.  Apparently the largest Karaoke bar in the South-though, now that I think about it, I have no idea the name of the bar and I’m really not inclined to find out.

I have appropriate beach karaoke attire.  A short skort, a tank, Hilfiger flops.  A party attitude…

and…

my mom?

Well of course I have my mom.  My mom is totally my drinking pal.

I was pretty certain that karaoke was going to happen.  I’ve been singing “Before he cheats” for days in the car.  Appropriately, I’m the last Southern girl on the planet to discover Carrie Underwood.

Basic karaoke fodder.  Totally basic.

Jager bombs are very dangerous.

There’s a two hour wait to sing.

Some chick gets my song before I do.  She fails.  Doubly.

Chatting up a semi-bald metal wanna-be who sing Linkin Park and nods and smiles at my attempt at playful banter.

My flirt skills waver after the second pitcher of PBR and the third bomb.

Though, I do keep it together to sing.

Mom bails.  Won’t sing.  I hear her chatting up some dude about Lutheranism and Baptists and other metaphysical pursuits that kind of make me want to vom.

Oh, wait…

that’s probably the PBR.

My Gigi

May 3rd, 2009 | Memorial, Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

My grandmother has always been my rock.  My mother and I are unusually close and I appreciate that relationship in a way that’s difficult to explain.

My grandmother is different though.

There’s nothing I could do or say-she never yells at me, she’s quick to lend me $5 or $10 or $100 whether I need it or deserve it, which I rarely do deserve it.

Today after we went to Longhorn’s for my aunt’s birthday, filled with sweet margaritas and medium rare filets, my grandmother-or Gigi as she has affectionately become since the birth of my son-went and had pedicures and manicures at a nice salon in town.

We didn’t talk about anything life changing, in fact, she practically fell asleep in the deep tissue massage chair, but just the comfy air between us two, with the nail tech busy below, was nice.

We always did everything together, she taught me to read, walked me to the library twice a week during the summers when I was small.  She would push my hair back and tell me what a beautiful forehead her sweet angel had…

Our days are getting shorter.  I see the orange and red in the sky.  I get busy and she gets tired chasing my fair-haired baby boy.

When the sun sets, my face won’t be dry for years afterward.

And Then Sometimes a Tree Just Falls…

April 19th, 2009 | Uncategorized | 3 Comments »

I am the world’s largest glutton for punishment.

I love…

the following.

1. Essay finals.

2. Mothers-in-law who will never actually be my mother-in-law.

3.  Making myself wholly available to people, we’ll call them my friends, and thank they profusely when feeling abused.

4. Ice cream.

Though, I did have pasta this weekend.  And it was awesome.  And I’m not sorry at all.

So, there.

Day Three of Stupid Bullshit I didn’t Ask For.

March 27th, 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments »

I really dislike driving in the rain.  I was in an accident when I was 20.  We were coming home from a rave.

(Please leave your lame comments at the door.)

And my st00pid boyfriend drove.  Because we were high.  And I guess I felt the better driver of the two of us was him.

Is it ever really him?  The better of anything?  I mean seriously, when is “he is the better” ever the real answer?

It was drizzling and we hit a tiny, teensy, you’d really need to be blind to see it, spot of standing water.  He slams on the brakes.  Well, of course he slams on the brakes.  Because that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to do.  Well, the second thing you aren’t supposed to do…is over correct.  Jerk the wheel in the opposite direction in which you are hydroplaning.

Yeah. None of the right things did he.

We made three or four revolutions.  I’ll never forget how blue his eyes looked to me.  Big as quarters as he screamed, “Oh Shit! Oh Shit!” over and over.

We went down a 20 foot embankment on I-75 north just past Barret Parkway and hit a tree head on.

We were fine (obviously, dumbass, I’m writing this) but I was terrified.  My little car was totalled.

Anyway, this morning I got super, dooper lucky.  I found a parking space very close to class in the rain.  As I’m moving through the TLC building (and that does not stand for Tender Loving Class) a chick I’ve never seen before and her very musical theater I swear I’m straight (I’ve got the gaydar of a 25 year old dancer at Swinging Richards) boyfriend walk right up to me.

“You know who the Rockettes are?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The Rockettes.  You know who they are?”

“The Rockettes in New York City?  Yes, I know who they are.  Why?”

“Well, what do they do?”

“Uh, they’re a kickline.”

“Yes!”

Victory was evidently very sweet for her.  He walked away bitterly disappointed.

I do  what I can.  Really, I do.

Anyway, the whole world is now apparently pissed off at me.  The thing about this that really sucks is that for all the things my relationship is, it’s fun.  It’s no drama.  It’s lots of laughing and very little if any crying.  The crying usually comes from other people interfering.

Of course I’ve been made to feel like I’m the one with a maturity problem.

Though, I am not passive-aggressive.  I went straight to the problem.  Like you’re supposed to when you’re an adult.  Confront the aggressor.  Figure out the problem.

Now, he’s upset with me for being caught in the middle.  Which isn’t my fault.

Eventually she’ll get her way.  Because for what am I putting up with all this bullshit if there’s no goal.  And don’t get it twisted.  There’s not.  Much as I’d love for there to be.

*sigh*.

Yay.  Weekend.  Meh.

When You Look in the Mirror and See “That Girl.”

March 26th, 2009 | Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

What kind of insane dichotomy has to exist for one person in your life to make you feel so good about yourself and another person to make you feel so badly?  Oh, they live under the same roof, just FYI.

There’s a line of involvement where you’re no longer introduced as “my friend.”

There’s a line of involvement where you can be trusted to drink an adult beverage around *gasp* minors and not feel guilty.

There’s a line of involvement where you can be treated like an adult with an active, positive sex life that deserves respect and privacy.

Apparently, I’ve still not reached that line.

Oh, I know.  You don’t have to tell me.

What sucks is that, the person that makes me feel so wonderful is related to the person who makes me feel so bad.

Would you like an update?

Well of course you would.

The sickeningly sweet over-the-top I wouldn’t offend you if it meant saving the starving children in Africa attitude has been in full effect.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Can you get that recipe for me?  I’d love to have it.”

“Just lay back down, you should get some more rest if you can.”

I know what sincerity looks like and this ain’t it.  I’m not the best judge of character when it comes to men (or I am I just ignore it) but my mama didn’t raise no fool.

In any event, in an effort to be sensitive to other members of the household, most physical activity is pursued in a room away from bedrooms belonging to children and mothers.  Lights out, doors closed, not necessarily quiet, but definitely not having the cops called on a noise violation.

When someone inadvertently opens a door and turns on a light and the tell-tale signs of the road to orgasmic ecstasy are all around, what is the appropriate response (given that the person involved is not your 15 year old daughter?)

I’ll wait while you decide.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

We have a winner, Bob.

It’s turn the fuck around and go back where you came from.

Not shuffle and bustle and move a bunch of shit around in search of a midnight snack while I sit here with a cock inside me trying to figure out if I need to cover up, cry or run away.  Damn.  Basic roommate etiquette.  Every college freshman knows this.

I couldn’t be seen as there was a flimsy accordian door separating us from her in the kitchen.  A never closed off kitchen window with merely a cotton panel to shut out the over sink light.

But I could be heard.

I could hear.

Another insincere apology this A.M.

So today, an ultimatum.  Which sucks.  I do not enjoy trying to force someone to react.  I want them to react on their own.  To act like an adult.  An adult with any amount of control over their own fucking household.

I really tried to think of a way to make this funny.  But I’m fuming.  I’m hurt.  I’m frustrated.  I’m saddened that the reality of how much I mean to someone is being shoved in my face when I just wasn’t ready for it yet.  I just wanted a little more time to decide for myself how long to let it go on.

Hell no, I wouldn’t cancel the combined outing with him  and her.  Not on your life would I dream of giving someone the satisfaction of continuing to intimidate me.  I’m being unfair with that?  Really?  Seriously, I’m the one?

I call bullshit.

I know what the answer is.  I’m just not there yet.

Public Displays of Tongue Twister

March 24th, 2009 | Uncategorized | 5 Comments »

I love airports.

I mean, I know, I know. 

BUT WHY?

Well, there seems to be some super gravitational centrifuge reverse black hole for couples at airports.

Airports and theme parks.

You can’t walk 20 feet in either place without tripping over some poor pimple-faced emo kid, whose mom won’t let him pierce his lip so he bought one of those totally super ghey pretend face jewelry thingies, sucking on the face of the unfortunate young lady, in shorts so much more unfortunate that they may have at one time fit a Cabbage Patch Doll before they shrunk, that he has some how convinced to love him. And let him touch her. In public.

It’s sweet.

I dare you to say it’s not.

I love the reunions.  Young.  Old. Ugly.  Gorgeous.  You see affection in all shapes and sizes and colors and levels of fashion victim.

It gives me hope, it does.

If super fat trailer trash on their first flight outside the mobile home park in East Bumfuck, AL can find each other and make out under the bright and optimistic lights of Atlanta-Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, then surely Shirley, that delectable Cuban in line at Busch Gardens may materialize on my doorstep one day.

Mmmmm.   I do love a good Cuban.

The hilarity of it all doesn’t really peak there, however.  This past weekend the plan was to attend The Holy Land Experience in Orlando, FL.

Yes.  I am atheist.

Yes.  I’m obsessed with religion.

Yes.  I’ll…

…wait for it.

Yes.  It’s weird.

Are you done?

Unable to attend because a theme park in Florida somehow managed to get itself filled to capacity, which I wasn’t sure was even possible (and am still a little curious if my non-theistic aura was showing), I wondered what kind of good Christian PDA one might find at the product of this country’s ridiculous love affair with fundamentalist evangelical religion.

I’m going back.

I need to see that Replica Crucifixion Jesus smiles on public tonsil hockey.

Before he ceremoniously gives it up to the Big Guy Working the Controls.

She’s Not Me

March 13th, 2009 | Uncategorized | 4 Comments »

Have you ever noticed how some people are just determined to figure out your life for you?

You have one or maybe two drinks in a day, you obviously have a drinking problem.

You’re loud in bed, so you must be cheap.

You have strong Southern manners, therefore, you are fake.

Oh, and my number one favorite.  You genuinely care for someone-so you’re obviously in love.

Life is a growth process and most of the time I welcome those opportunities.  Sometimes, they just beat you down.  The fact is, that you truly can’t please everyone and my goal is to be a good mom and hopefully please myself in the process occasionally.  I’m under no obligation to be who Mom or Dad or his mom or anyone else decides I ought to be.

My only obligation is good parenting.  Be true to myself.  Hell, that’s a tall order as it is with the whole world pulling at every limb!

I’ve been dating the same guy since October.  I care for him deeply, but I know it’s not going to be any more serious than what it is right now.  Would I like it to be more?  Probably, but the longer I’m in this the more I realize that there’s just nothing wrong with spending time with someone who is good to me, cares for me and has a really good time with me.

His mother, unfortunately, doesn’t really see it that way.

I’m not his dead wife.

I’m not his wonderful female best friend.

I’m just…

me.

So it really doesn’t matter who I am, I FAIL.

Part of it makes me really angry.  She’s rude, she’s insensitive.  She’s the opposite of everything I know about men and their mothers in the South.

That’s what I get for dating a Yankee I suppose.

The other part of me just wants to brush her off as shallow and ignorant-but, well, she intimidates me.  I’m not usually easily intimidated, but she rules over their house like the Queen Bee she’s been allowed to be since his wife died.

He shares some responsibility for her actions.  Survival mode required him to put her in this position without much thought to the long term consequences.  She’s with them all day and then he treats her as a baby-sitter at night.  Well, those night plans usually include me, so, obviously I must be the culprit.

None of this is neither here nor there I suppose, really, because I’m the only one in this equation I can affect.  All I can do is do me.  Everyone else can just suck it.

Parking Spots

November 11th, 2008 | Uncategorized, social | 6 Comments »

How long has it been since you went searching for a parking spot?

And I don’t mean the kind at the mall.

The kind you seek out, not for it’s closeness to the bustling front door of the grocery store, your car waiting patiently for your hurried push of bags in cart…gotta get home, dinner, kids, rush…rush…rush…

But for the sky empty of city intrusions and air neglect of horns and brakes.  A scavenger hunt through backroads and bumpy terrain for the perfect spot. 

Dark.  Cold.  Barren.

Reminiscent of teenage years wasted on thoughts of getting caught being more important than getting caught in the moment. 

Not now.

This time it’s easy, care isn’t spent on worry of a flashlight in the car, brown bottles sparking in the cup holder.  Care is spent on deciding if that really was a falling star; the decision coming a second to late for a wish.

Maybe there is a parking spot fairy?

Gas

September 29th, 2008 | Uncategorized, election, social | 10 Comments »

I guess I’ve been cheating myself.  Refusing to wait in line, refusing to let fear guide my decisions on where I go, or what I do.

Until yesterday when I realized I’d better get in line somewhere or sticking my head in the sand would get me nowhere and fast. 

My uncles told me there was gas two exits up the interstate-neither of them have waited in line yet-so, last night at about 6:00pm I drove to Temple, GA in search of unleaded gasoline.

The first truck stop was out.  But the Flying J had gas and the lines didn’t seem that long.  I pulled into position, turned on Madonna’s Hard Candy and turned off the ignition to wait. 

It started out pretty civil.  I tried to just listen to the tunes and ignore every other line.  But, as I got closer, I felt my stress level slowly start rising.  Like a movie, I was taking stock of each pump-that one is moving slowly, this one stopped too early, that guy is getting his gas and gas in a can.  Panic mode is banging on the door and I’m doing my best to keep the barricade up.  I don’t want to be party to this fear mongering bullshit.

It is finally my turn.  I’m next in line.  It takes me a second to see around the pump directly in front of me to see it is my turn to pull around to the pump on the other side.  Try to keep up-it’s a little complicated.

Make no mistake-the line I was in was for both pumps on this side.  My fellow line sitters and I had been waiting for over 30 minutes.

I see a car pulling up. 

I ask the people next to me, “Is that guy pulling into the pump?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, HELL no.”

Of course I jump out of my car and quickly tell this fat, moronic, asshole that there is a line and he needs to promptly put his overweight-ass haulin’ Pinto at the back of it.

The guy working tells me I’m 100% right.

The girl working there is trying to calm me down.

The asshole who pulled in front of me is trying to reason with me, all the while admitting he is a slimy line breaker.

I will calm down.

I will calm down immediately.

I will immediately calm my so-about-to-get-white-girl-ghetto ass down when this imbecile gets in the back of the line like the rest of us.

I have a diagram for clarification.  My car is red.

Dillhole’s car is green. 

Actually, I really don’t care if it’s clear or not.  I’m right.

Then, this bitch tries to say she’ll call the cops if I don’t calm down.

Really?

Here, please, use my cell phone.

The whole issue pisses me off.  I’m mad I let my temper get the best of me.  I’m mad that people can’t use the rules they learned in muthafukin’ kindergarten like how to form a goddamn line.  I’m mad that I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to the only source of money I have for the next 30 days.

Motherfucker.

That is all.